


Through the Shadows

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:50:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean is a smoking asthmatic, Sam leaves for Stanford, and Dad’s kind of a sappy jerk. Typical for Winchesters, it takes a dance with death to get things out in the open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Shadows

Dean had his first asthma attack when he was seven years old. 

He can still remember the panic he felt as he watched Sammy cry and call for _Daddy, he’s blue, look_ and have something shoved down his throat. He couldn’t speak for a few days, didn’t want to speak. Dad made jokes about it being nice that the house was so much quieter, but there was a look in his eyes that Dean never wanted to see again. So he talked, voice hoarse; he was rewarded with a chocolate sundae after dinner. That night, after he went to bed, tucked under the covers, Dean felt lips brush his forehead and a prayer whisper into his hair. After Dad shut the door softly behind him, Dean rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, tasting salt.

Dean smoked his first cigarette when he was twelve years old. The look of outrage on Dad’s face when he saw Dean fumble with the lighter and take his first inhale is burned into his brain; even now, he sees it at times when he closes his eyes. It’s stopped him from doing other stupid things, but not smoking. 

He was hooked.

Smoking with asthma is annoying as fuck, but that doesn’t keep the cigarettes out of his mouth. Dean doesn’t care; it’s a big ‘fuck you’ to his body. You don’t tell me what to do, shit. Suck it up. 

Dean coughs.

Hey, he never said he was smart.

:::

When Sam leaves, duffel slung over his shoulder, Dean smokes two packs a day for two weeks. Doesn’t even have to hide it from Dad this time, doesn’t even think Dad notices.

Dad, whose first words after Sam boarded the bus were “salt the windows” as he headed out to the local bar, knife hidden in his boot. 

Dad, who lingered in town two days later than normal just to make sure that Sam’s absence stuck. Not that it was ever mentioned aloud, of course. 

That first night, Dad must think he’s asleep, and Dean does nothing to alert him that that’s not the case. He keeps his breathing steady and his eyes closed.

“…make it all right? Was scheduled to arrive around nine their time.” A pause. “Fine.”

Dad lays the phone on the table and shuts off the light, sighing as he climbs into bed. Dean’s chest loosens in relief, and he sinks into the mattress. 

The days blur together, each one the same.

_Yes sir, guns clean._

_Car washed?_

_Yes, sir._

_Check every inch of those tires? Lot of mud got in there._

_I did, Dad. Swear._

_I find a speck and you’re gonna wash the whole thing, top to bottom, start to finish._

Before Dad goes out to check, Dean gets on his knees, digging into every part of each wheel. Doesn’t matter anyway, Dad’s gonna manage to find something, but Dean needs some distance. The Impala is much better company, after all. She’s consistent. Familiar.

Comforting. There’s no judgment from her when he sits on her hood and lights up one cigarette after another, inhaling them so quickly that he nearly pukes. The smoke bounces around his lungs, stealing what’s already there in short supply, but he keeps going. The smell shouldn’t be relaxing: it was all he could smell for that silent year, the year when Dad watched him with worried eyes and spoke in low tones on the phone. The year that Dad went almost as quiet as Dean did, bags under his eyes, lines around his mouth. He smelled smoke when Dad carried him downstairs, when he sat with Sammy, when Dad brushed the tangles out of his hair. Dad, who hadn’t become the man he is today. Dad, who’d hug him tightly and make him breakfast with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Who’d watch Dean and Sammy play together on the kitchen floor, Sammy banging pots and pans together with shrieks of laughter.

Maybe Dad was the one who smelled like smoke. Maybe smoking is the only way he can remember the man Dad used to be.

Dean’s not quite ready to think about what that means.

:::

[ Dean now, he’s constantly short of breath. ]

:::

The first few weeks were like a trial period. A blink and Dad is back, recognizable. 

Almost. 

Sam’s a ghost now; it’s as if he’s never existed, but at the same time he’s never left. Dad’s phone is never out of his sight: he checks it constantly. Thinks he’s being subtle when his eyes drift down to his side, looking for a missed call.

Neither one is going to make the first move. Dean sits outside on a picnic table a few blocks down and chain-smokes to his heart’s content, ignoring the image of Dad’s thumb skating over the keypad before he tosses the phone aside.

“You’re gonna kill yourself,” Dad says when he finds Dean outside, shaking his head. “If you really want to go out choking like a little kid, then go for it.”

Dad figures that he can attack the pride aspect, but Dean simply plucks a cig out of the pack and sticks it in his mouth, lighting up with ease. Dad grits his teeth but turns away – although the pack will be gone by morning. That’s fine. Mr. Perry’s credit card has no problem enabling Dean’s nasty habit.

It takes a few days, but Dean realizes that although Dad may be quieter, he’s more physical than he used to be: a hand on Dean’s bicep when they enter a gas station, a shoulder brushes against his own as they check-in. He doesn’t think Dad notices.

Unconsciously checking to make sure Dean’s still there.

When he wakes up one night, it’s to the sound of silence that only an empty room can offer.

“Dad?” Dean calls out anyway. He blinks over at the clock: 1:22AM. Where the hell is Dad at one in the morning without him?

When he looks out the motel window, he sees the Impala sitting silently in the parking lot where they last left her. Dean sighs and puts on some clothes; he knows where Dad is.

Smoke hits him in the face when he opens the door to the bar, causing him to both hack and lust for a cigarette right about now. He wipes his mouth and continues on, looking through the crowd.

“- you cocky son’bitch!”

There he is.

Dad’s surrounded by three guys, one of them holding a pool stick. He looks at them like they’re his next hunt, like they’re werewolves, black dogs, kappas. Eyes flicker between them, searching for weaknesses, how to take them down. Everyone else has backed away, not wanting to call attention to themselves. 

The curve to Dad’s lips is sinister, and Dean has no idea who he’s watching right now. Dad’s quiet, simply watching the guy in front of him spew insult and threats.

Then Dad headbutts him.

The friends roar with outrage, and the one holding the pool stick whacks Dad across the face with it. Dad stumbles but remains upright. When Dean runs in to help he nearly gets punched, and Dad growls, turns around, and slugs the guy in the solar plexus, taking him down. He pulls back a fist, knuckles already red with blood. Dean grabs his wrist to hold him back and there’s a split second when Dean thinks that Dad doesn’t know who he is, that _he’s_ gonna get punched, but Dad seems to come back to himself just in time.

Until Pool Stick hits him over the temple, and shit hits the fan.

People yell all around them, and Dean finds himself on the floor, face mashed into peanut shells. He reaches out for Dad, for rough flannel, the fabric that used to feel soothing against his cheek way back when, back Before, when he was too sleepy to walk and Mom would smile as he rubbed fists in his eyes. It used to smelled like cologne, with some of Mom’s perfume: now it smells like ash.

Someone steps on Dean’s hand and he reacts, sweeping his leg to take the guy out at the ankles; he falls with a muffled curse, and it’s probably time to get out of here.

“Dad,” Dean mutters. “ _Dad.”_

A hand grasps his forearm, and he knows it’s Dad by the calloused skin, the blisters. He doesn’t think twice, just grabs Dad’s shirt and pulls him to his feet, ducking through the crowds, the shattering of beer bottles as the screaming patrons lob them at each other. In the distance, Dean hears sirens, and he pushes people out of the way to slip out through the door. The blast of cool air is welcome, his lungs grateful to get away from all the smoke. 

He’s still going to smoke until he passes out, whenever they get out of this damn place.

Dean wraps one of Dad’s arms around his own shoulders and they stumble down the sidewalk back to the motel. Dad’s silent, breathing puffs of air into Dean’s ear. Dean appreciates the quiet, as he’s giving almost every ounce of breath he has to drag both of their asses.

Dean doesn’t bother taking them back in the room; he dumps Dad by the car, tosses him the keys, and runs for their stuff. Dad has the car started and is smartly in the passenger seat when he gets back. By Dad’s rapid blinking, Dean can safely say his vision is probably compromised.

“Drive,” Dad says, voice raspy, as if he’s been screaming. Dean bites back his sarcastic response and puts the car into drive, roaring out of the parking lot. They eat up miles, still in silence, Dad’s posture enough to tell Dean to fuck off.

He doesn’t think, just drives. He’s thirsty, but he sticks with the old, lukewarm Coke that’s fallen under his feet. A few hours in, when it looks like Dad may have drifted off to sleep, Dean sticks a cigarette in his mouth, rolls down the window, and lights up.

“Put it out.”

Dean chokes, the cig flying out the window. “Jesus, Dad.”

“I don’t want you smoking in the car. Don’t want to see you smoking, period.”

Okay, you won’t see it. “I’m a grown man, I don’t think you can make that decision for me.”

“Yeah? Well, my rules. You don’t like it, you can just le –“ Dad stops, swallows, turns back to the window.

When Dean lights up the next cigarette, after patching Dad up and leaving two ibuprofen with a glass of water on the bedside table, Dad doesn’t say a word. 

:::

After that, it’s full steam ahead. Dad doesn’t talk much; he charges shrugs, grunts, or nods for any question, and soon enough Dean stops asking.

Sometimes he’ll go two days without speaking, if they don’t bother stopping in a diner or restaurant. They live off of gas station chips and coffee for the most part, but it’s all right, Dean’s not hungry, anyway. He thinks that Dad would have forgotten that food is a necessity if Dean weren’t around.

Dean also thinks that Dad is embarrassed by his loss of control, and Dad hoards his words: they’re the only things he can control, after all. Dean takes after his old man in one way, at least.

Dad doesn’t look at him unless he has to, and Dean wonders sometimes if he was written off right with Sam. Maybe it’s easier for Dad that way, but it’s stupid, because he can’t think that Dean would have left him. 

_”Just think about it. Come with me.”_

Dad will never know. 

Dean picks up the pace; he can be enough. He reads twice as much, eyes blurring as he stares at text after text. He memorizes even more spells and practices his Latin under his breath, sometimes having conversations with himself. Not like there’s anyone else to talk to. Not really.

He smokes. A lot. His hand feels empty without a cigarette, without nicotine ruining through his veins. The smoke seeps into his skin, weighing him down, but he can’t stop. Won’t stop. He uses his inhaler as sparingly as he can, not wanting to give Dad any more ammunition. 

Dad doesn’t need anything else to worry about.

:::

Despite the fiasco at the last town, the first place Dad looks for when they reach a new town is a bar. It’s casual, driving the car down side streets while he watches for signs, but there’s no doubt what it is he’s seeking out.

It’s common, too, to wake up during the night and find Dad missing – some nights Dean stumbles out of bed and drags him home, bloody and surly, and other nights he lets Dad come home on his own.

Dean just doesn’t have the energy anymore.

Sometimes he waits for Dad outside, cigarette sticking out of his mouth, chest constricted and breaths wheezy.

Tonight, he puffs on cigarette after cigarette, sitting on the curb outside their room. This time, when Dad comes back, he’s clean; no blood, no torn skin, no black eyes.

“Not in the mood tonight?” Dean asks. 

Dad doesn’t answer: he sits down next to Dean, propping his elbows on his knees. Dean braces himself for the speech he’s heard a million times already, from Sam to one night stands to high school English teachers.

Dad doesn’t disappoint. “You really need to stop,” he says. “Especially with your –“ he gestures to Dean’s chest. 

“If you can’t say it, you’re not old enough to talk about it.”

“I mean it this time,” Dad says, and there’s a slight slur to his words. “You can’t. It’s not good for you.”

“I know,” Dean says tiredly. “Bad lung capacity, can’t hold my breath as long, weak in the field.”

“No,” Dad says, so low that Dean thinks he missed it. “That’s not why.”

Dean stills, cigarette dangling on his lips. He takes another hit and mashes it on the asphalt. “You can’t do what you’re doing either, you know.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Getting blitzed every night,” Dean says, in disbelief that he’s actually bringing this up. “Pissing off guys twice your size just so you can kick their ass. It’s fucked up.”

Dad doesn’t answer for a moment. “It’s cold out here,” he says. “You should get inside.”

The next night, Dad brings home a fifth of Johnny Walker Black and two glasses. It’s not what Dean was asking, not by a long shot, but he takes his glass and drinks with his father, aware of what it took for Dad to let Dean have this victory, no matter how small.

:::

“Suit up,” Dad says. He’s been fidgeting, antsy, now that he doesn’t have his outlet. Ready to go back to what’s comfortable, what he knows.

If they wait any longer, Dad’s gonna slash whatever is in the vicinity, and Dean likes his skin whole, thanks. So he nods, packs, and slides into the front seat.

On the way, Dad talks more in that two hour period than he has in the past week. “Eight victims in the past two years. Judging by location, it could be – are you listening?”

Dean taps his fingers against his thigh, mouth salivating for a cigarette. “Yep. A cave, Michigan – you thinking wendigo?”

“Yeah,” Dad says, watching Dean from the corner of his eye. “I need you to focus.”

“Focused,” Dean says. At least he will be, once he reunites with an old friend. He doesn’t miss the fact that they’re been slowly making their way east ever since Sam left. He wonders what will happen when they run out of land.

Dad just sighs and grips the steering wheel tighter, the angry vein in his forehead making an appearance.

By the time they get to Michigan, night has fallen, but Dad doesn’t want to waste any time.

“Just some recon,” he says, popping the trunk. “In and out.”

“I can’t go to the bathroom first?” Dean asks, clutching the lighter in his pocket.

“Bathroom,” Dad says. His gaze is knowing. “And that’s it.” 

Shit.

Dean eats some day old Cheetos from the backseat, anything to keep his mind off his nicotine craving. He trades that with swigs from the lukewarm Coke, and although it helps, it’s not nearly enough. Dad hands him a shotgun, eyes zeroing in on how Dean’s grasp is shaky, and Dean endures a five minute lecture about staying focused and not fucking up because if he can’t keep his head straight, Dad will leave his ass at the motel room. Dean just grits his teeth and shoulders beside him.

The only sound Dean hears is the crunching of leaves under his feet. It’s windy, which does nothing for his lungs, and Dad motions for him to zip up his jacket. Barely managing to suppress making a face, Dean does so, and starts to pull away from Dad. Still in hearing distance, but it makes a lot less ground to cover than if they were sticking together. Dad stops and watches for a moment, mouth turned down at the corners, but follows suit, moving in the opposite direction.

Normally, Sam would be at his six, facing away, covering every angle. Twice as much to cover now, and it’s slightly disorienting, as if he keeps moving in circles, not sure if he’s going the wrong way now. He looks around, tries to keep an eye out for landmarks to make sure he hasn’t backtracked -

Dean’s next step meets only air.

Recon, my ass.

:::

It’s dark. 

The air that’s barely managing to slip into his lungs is stale, like it’s been recycled over and over and is trying to pass off as oxygen. Dean’s face is pressed against the ground, grains of dirt sinking into his mouth. He spits, breathing in a cloud of dust, and there’s a moment or two or thirty when he swears he’s going to die, his lungs overtaken and constricted. Rolling on his back, he blinks and squints: huh. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he was back in the sixth grade on that field trip to Luray Caverns. Stalagmites hang above him - _no, stalactites, stalagmites with the ‘g’ for ground, right._ If he listens carefully he can hear Joshua Marksman laugh at the ones that look like balls. It was a stretch, really, but it was hilarious to laugh at shit like that when you were finally learning what your junk was for.

Dean forces himself to sit up, a hand pressed against his chest. His other hand fumbles for his pocket, searching for his inhaler.

It comes up empty for his inhaler, but his phone’s still there. Cracked and screen blank. Guess phones don’t survive falls down holes. Shit. Okay, that’s fine. Dad’s around, he’s got this. Hopefully. Take slow breaths and check out the surroundings. Look for openings.

No problem.

Almost.

He tries to stand and nearly topples right back over. Jesus. That’s all right, he should stay close to the ground and avoid the stalactites, after all. It’s not crawling if he’s avoiding stalactites.

For a moment, Dean is grateful Dad’s not around to see this. He’s gonna get enough shit as it is. _Watch where you’re going. Try to notice gaping holes in the ground before you step in them._ Rules sixty-seven and eighty-two, probably.

On the wall, he sees carvings: tally marks, notes. 

_Eight. Too salty._

_Thirteen. Too skinny._

_Nineteen. Perfect. Remember his type._ There’s a fucking _smiley face_ next to this one. Figures he’d fall right into where the fucker brought his victims.

Type? Fuck. Dean stops; the list of supernatural beings who can physically write is, well. Short. 

He doesn’t want to think of the other option, but suddenly he’s about to wet himself and he needs to get the hell out of here, now, _go_ \- 

Dean’s hand brushes over something hard, solid, and he stops, examining further. Among the smooth surface, his fingers find some cracks, and he leans down, almost nose to nose with the object.

It’s a femur.

Dean definitely doesn’t yell, or scoot back, or kick the bone away. Dirt clings to his palms, slick with sweat. He closes his eyes and tries to regroup before he starts crawling again, feeling around with tentative touches: where there’s a femur, there’s another. And eyes. Arms. Scattered all over with reckless abandon, thrown aside after being gnawed on like a buffalo wing.

When Dean reopens his eyes, he’s face-to-face with a head of a skeleton, maggots crawling out of the empty eye sockets. The eyes have long since abandoned its skull for greener pastures, to rot and mix with the mud of Hell like old friends come home. It’s been forgotten, left behind. A hoarse yell bursts from his chest before he can swallow it down, and it echoes all around him. He swallows, pants, every muscle in his body vibrating. 

What was it like to waste away down here, alone, only stone and mud and malodorous air for company? To scream, cry, wondering if someone is listening and laughing as your flesh melts away like wax? Would it be like - ?

_Circles and circles and circles. Hell is repetition. Hell is the same thing every day. Hell is seeing no end in sight. Hell is isolation._

His lungs protest, and when he blinks, he’s flat on his back again. Fuckin’ asthma. Maybe he should wait for Dad. 

Dean takes a minute. Breathing. Breathing is good. Focusing on the formations above him is good. Not thinking about the skeletons all around him, fantastic. Except his brain is going haywire, flashing images of his flesh flayed and torn apart, his bones settled in, right at home. They’re vulnerable, unprotected: muscles to be picked off with ease and used as floss for sharp, yellow teeth. 

_Normal, white teeth._

There’s a whistling sound in his ears; it’s loud, piercing, and he scrunches his eyes closed, hoping it’ll go away. His chest seizes, lungs frozen, and he covers his ears with his hands. Dean tries to even out his breathing but he mourns each escaped breath. He’s drowning in a sea of air; he feels it kiss his skin but it dances away when he tries to inhale it. 

_Stop. Calm down – stop!_

The familiar feel of a mouthpiece against his lips, and he opens his mouth automatically. The taste of the medicine is awful but he drinks it down, relishing the feeling of his chest opening up.

“Jesus,” someone mutters above him. Hand against his chest. “Hey. One more.”

 _Dad still carries a spare inhaler._ ‘Course he does, dumbass. It’s a weakness, you’ve got be prepared for it in the field so that the whole hunt doesn’t get fucked up, after all.

By now, Dean’s able to bring a hand up and secure the mouthpiece himself. He pries an eye open and takes the breath, meeting Dad’s stare. After the medicine is gone, Dad nods and tucks the inhaler back in his pocket. He doesn’t even bother asking for a sit rep, just goes about checking Dean on his own, practiced hands searching for broken bones and lacerations.

“I’m good,” Dean mumbles, licking his lips and taking small breaths.

Dad ignores him.

“No, really –“

“Quiet,” Dad says, and he’s pissed; that vein in his forehead screams at him.

“Sorry –“

“ _Quiet._ ”

So Dean shuts his mouth.

Dad lays a hand on Dean’s neck for a moment, just one last check before the touch drops away. “Breathe in.”

“Dad –“

“Jesus Christ, Dean.” Dad’s expression is almost desperate. Needy.

_You’re the only one I can check with my two hands._

Dean nods and obliges him, Dad finally looking satisfied.

“Take a minute, then we need to get out of here.”

“’s dead?” Dean asks, somehow aware that he’s allowed to speak. “And how did you get down here?”

“Yeah,” Dad says. “Fucker’s dead.” He looks around the cave and sees the notes carved into the wall. “Jesus,” he repeats.

“Wendigo?” Dean asks.

Dad’s eyes take on a haunted look. “No.”

Dean’s next question slips off his lips like water.

Dad shakes it off. “Came down here the old-fashioned way, you know. The entrance.”

“Sounds boring.”

Despite the glare, a fond smile plays on Dad’s lips. “Sounds smart.”

Dean pulls himself up, sitting cross-legged. He rests his hands against his knees, taking a few more practice breaths. Just to be sure. Dad tracks his every movement carefully, a strange look in his eyes.

“He’s fine,” Dad says abruptly. “I checked.”

Dean doesn’t move: one wrong breath could steer the conversation away, and if Dad stops talking about it he may never talk about it again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean swallows. “You can’t pretend that he doesn’t exist,” he says, quiet.

Dad doesn’t answer him for a few minutes; they sit, side-by-side, sharing the same stale air that’s been circling this damn place. 

“Come on,” Dad says finally, pushing himself to his feet. He puts his hand against Dean’s chest. “Sounds like you’re good to move now. You need to get some albuterol in you.”

Dean takes a hot shower when he gets back; the steam feels good in his lungs. Muddy water streams down the drain, and he watches with detachment, still seeing the teeth marks on the bone. He checks his own flesh every few moments, just in case, just in case that the time he can’t account for he wasn’t –

Dad knocks on the door. “Got dinner,” he says. “Whenever you’re done.”

“Yeah,” Dean manages to call out, dropping his arm. No need to check, really. Dad already did. And Dad doesn’t miss anything.

Except when he does.

Dinner means pizza. Meat Lovers, Dean’s favorite. 

Saying _hey, I’m kind of fond of you,_ Winchester style. Dean smiles and takes a piece. Dad doesn’t say anything about it, but he watches to make sure Dean eats at least two slices before he points to bed: pillows set up exactly the way Dean likes them when he’s having ‘lung trouble’, as Sam used to call it. Dean swallows past the lump in his throat and climbs in, listening to Dad putter around and finish up last minute things.

“We can go next week.”

Dean opens his eyes and watches his dad put their weapons away. “Go where?”

“Stanford. Just to check-in, make sure he’s fine.” Dad flips off the light, casual. Something said in passing, no big deal. Dean sees right through it.

“Sounds good,” Dean says, and he breathes just a bit easier.

Just before Dean drops off to sleep, he feels lips against his temple and a _thank you_ breathed into his hair: a prayer.


End file.
